


Consign Me Not to Darkness

by axumun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hell Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:38:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2039298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axumun/pseuds/axumun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The evil that lurked in those nightmares was very much alive, writhing in the angel's hypothetical grasp. Their structures were similar to those of trees; remnants of Dean's descent from 'tortured' to 'torturer'; shards of Hell itself, rooted just behind the hunter's eyes. </p><p>His Grace alone would not kill them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consign Me Not to Darkness

_Filthy chains wrapped around the angel's limbs, burning through skin and articles of clothing wherever they touched. The air was thick with smoke and rot and sickening heat. Cackling lightning flashed, intense enough to roast the eyes of the faint-hearted, as a constant backdrop of screams filled the spaces in between. There was a clear distinction between the anguished cries of the damned and the amused screeches of their tormentors._

_The solace of numbness was not granted, and Castiel could only move enough to twitch, to feel the perpetual trembling of his fingers, the ragged breaths his vessel pulled in and pushed out through acquired instinct._

_The unrelenting din and stinging restraints and razor-edged futility of everything that had lead to this moment was enough to keep Castiel from ever catching a breath to plan his escape, to figure out how to raise the Righteous Man._

_Ah, the Righteous Man, who had been broken down far enough to succumb to the role of a demon..._

~

Dean was a standout among humankind in many ways, but something unique about Dean that Castiel noted very early on was that he had no safety nets, no true escape. While he could momentarily distract himself with booze and sex and rock 'n roll, his mind never fully let go of his responsibilities and burdens the way others could, even for a moment. 

Even when Dean hid his pain, it was always evident to Castiel. The angel could feel the impact of his father's fists whenever Dean threw back a shot, hear his mother's lullabies crackling like records in his flirtatious smiles, always sharing the tension locking his muscles the moment he lost someone who could've been saved. 

None of this could compare to what Castiel saw when Dean slept.

Cas would arrive in silence at Dean's bedside once the hunter was incapacitated enough not to startle at his presence. For a couple of hours at best, Dean slept peacefully as unremarkable dreams played out quietly in blurred sepia tones, but they weren't vivid enough to impact his consciousness.

Then the nightmares would come.

They'd arrive all at once, almost too bright and loud and painful for Dean's conscious mind to handle. Sometimes his eyes would open in blind panic, his hands trembling and clutching at his pillow, revealing fears that never surfaced when awake. On the worst nights, he would scream.

Castiel had long anticipated the haunting of Dean's damnation. He'd seen what torture could do to a human psyche, in the way that consistent heat and pressure can change rocks and eventually shape mountains. As soon as these images arrived, the angel weaved himself into Dean's head in the span of a breath, fending off the shadows dancing behind Dean's eyelids before they could be seen again. Castiel could feel Dean's fears from the inside, hear the alarms his subconscious was synapsing to the rest of the body.

Most nightmares were petty enough to simply be destroyed, but these were quite a bit more stubborn. The evil that lurked in those nightmares was very much alive, writhing in the angel's hypothetical grasp. Their structures were similar to those of trees; remnants of Dean's descent from 'tortured' to 'torturer'; shards of Hell itself, rooted just behind the hunter's eyes. 

His Grace alone would not kill them.

~  
 _  
Dean's voice was not his own anymore, twisted and breaking as it spilled from his throat, parched and ragged from screams and laughter. When he spoke to Castiel it was only to remind him of how the angel had failed his Father, failed Heaven; how he would bleed out slow, feel his own Fall, beg for mercy as his own Grace slipped from the tears in his flesh._

_The harshness of the verbal threats was enough to remind Castiel that this was not Dean Winchester. The soul that he had been tasked with saving had either been buried beaneath decades of abuse and suffering, or snuffed out completely. Cas could only keep up his morale by believing in the former._

_He reminded himself of this every time the Angel Blade of a fallen comrade cut across his stomach, licked across his shoulders, curled around his wrists._

_Dean would watch rapt as the scars opened across Castiel's skin, eyes widening as he watched a faint silver light fill the cuts. There was an innocence in those eyes, despite the agony they so loved to analyze. The brightness in Dean's eyes was a testament to the presence of his soul._

_Castiel had to believe that to endure the stagnant, debilitating months that lay ahead of him._

~

It was easy, at first. Castiel could ignore the shadows he had pulled into his mind with no trouble.

...until they escalated beyond irritating hallucinations to howling voices, sharp pains accompanying wounds that only bled from his own perspective, the wrecked voice of a good friend shouting that he had failed...

...failed, failed, FAILED!

This was simple enough to ignore, since Castiel only needed to remind himself that he _didn't_ fail. It got easier to brush the evil away when he saw the relative lightness in Dean's steps, the ease of his smiles, the sincerity of his words. He had raised the Righteous Man from perdition.

Then they became clever.

They twisted Dean's words, forming ghosts of things he'd never spoken, about the destruction in Heaven, the dwindling of his Grace, how useless...

...useless, useless, USELESS!

That was bearable. Until the real Dean echoed these voices.

It was then that the shadows mocked Dean, quoting him verbatim through the rasp of his aggressor, every blow and stab and prod intensifying, refusing to heal, dripping blood that only he could see. At other times, they decided to move past mocking and form into perfect fascimiles of Dean: Dean's eyes, only murderous; Dean's smile, twisted into a bloodthirsty, taunting smirk; Dean's hands, only rougher, dirtier, with intent to squeeze and suffocate and maim.

They wanted to taint him. They wanted to crawl into his vessel and claw at him from the inside out, feed on his Grace just to spit it out and torch it with Hellfire, drag his body back into the pit, secure him upon the Rack and tally how many scars they could fit on Jimmy Novak's perfect skin.

Castiel would never let them. They'd drive him into madness before they decimated the last of what belonged to him. Perhaps it was Dean that gave him the sensation of having possessions in the first place; his unbound will was rubbing off on the angel. 

Through the head-pounding cackles and shooting, sparking pain, Castiel kept his focus on Dean. He often skipped over Dean's physical form to revel in his resilience, his intelligence, losing himself in the memory of the moment he was finally able to contact the inviting warmth of Dean's unarmored soul, cowering in the falling angel's dirtied hands.

Before long, basking in the purity of Dean's most basic elements wasn't enough to keep the shadows out of Castiel's line of sight. There was no comfort in Dean's words anymore, no solace to be found in the curve of his smile. Perhaps it said something about Castiel that he'd come to this: trying to glean a sense of safety from Dean's superficial form. Oh, the sins that would be tallied on his bounty if he'd fallen far enough to fantasize about physical pleasure, but it was the only thing that made the taunts and the stabs and the whips tolerable.

 

~  
 _  
Castiel flared his wings as far as he could through the ache of their underuse and the depletion of his Grace. Dean's soul was cradled in his arms, its soft light a stark contrast to the blackness of Hell that his human eyes had slowly grown accustomed to. The angel made sure his hold on the energy was tight before willing himself away, before the demons acting as guardians of Dean's wickedness could prey upon them._

_The angel couldn't shake the soul from his grasp. It was clinging to him, moving as if to burrow itself into Castiel's chest, warm light twining around his fingers and mussing up his hair. It was playful, almost stubborn, making a protest that sounded like a bell chime when Castiel tried to gently shake the soul off of him. He had work to do, after all._

_As Castiel patched up Dean's battered body, the soul perched itself atop the angel's shoulder. Castiel found a memory fluttering around Dean's consciousness that mirrored this action; he saw a little boy, looking over his father's shoulder as he disassembled a shotgun at the kitchen table. There was a wonder in the child's eyes as he oversaw the methodical process, but God, he was much too young to be accustomed to such a sight._

_The moment Castiel touched Dean's soul, he got an inadvertent peek at everything inside: fears, vices, desires, memories. He saw everything that haunted Dean, everything that soothed him, everything he'd lost, everything he clung to._

_Castiel already saw himself as a part of the soul's story, playing before his eyes like flashes on a movie reel. Some were bright and vivid, some dulled and fraying at the edges. He wondered if Dean would accept Castiel as a part of his life when he was put back together._

*

*

*

Pitifully mortal, with no Grace to hold the shadows at bay, Cas could only stare blankly toward the wall of the bunker as Dean's panting, muffled shouts of terror wrenched themselves from his throat. Dean would wake himself up with the noise, usually before Sammy could hear and try to psychobabble his ear off. Castiel's own sleep eluded him, his universal helplessness eating away at him. 

Since Dean's troubles involved literal remnants of Hell, no amount of Nyquil or therapy could chase away his visions. Only Cas could do that...except, not anymore, not without his Grace.

Dean had encountered enough grief just in the few years since Hell to account for the night terrors, which could be destroyed without a second thought before Cas' Fall. The others, though, those were his responsibility. They had to be dealt with somehow.

On Cas' third pitch-black pin-drop silent night at the bunker, almost like clockwork, he heard Dean's shouts again, could hear him thrashing on the bed if he listened hard enough. The shouts turned to pained whimpers and desperate pleas, then to sinister, pained growls. Then the shouting started again, quickly smothered by his pillow.

How much more of this could either of them take? Dean was going to break if he held all this baggage for much longer, and Cas' last shred of faith in himself would be gone. He could no longer sit around and stare aimlessly as Dean suffered.

Castiel couldn't take on the pain, but he could be there when Dean awoke, to quiet his cries, comfort him through what could no longer be fixed.

Once Cas wrestled himself off of the couch and maneuvered his way through the darkness, he hurried with irritatingly-heavy footsteps to Dean's bedroom door, easily undoing the lock that he'd been taught how to pick. He could make out the lines of Dean's body on the bed, twisting and squirming as his shouts faded to sobs. He was waking up.

Cas approached Dean's bed and crouched down to be eye-level with the hunter. He was aware of all the weapons at Dean's disposal, knew which ones Dean would go for first if he believed there was an intruder. 

"Dean," Cas muttered, his neutral tone tinged with hope and a hint of pain. 

Dean didn't stir. Tears were spilling from his eyes, a rare display of his vulnerability. Words seemed futile, which left Cas with the riskier of his most favorable options. He kneeled on the bed, tapping Dean's trembling shoulder with the most gentle touch he could manage, pressing more firmly when he received no reaction. 

"Dean," he tried again, louder. Dean's breathing was heavy, interrupted every now and then by sharp, mournful whimpers. This close to the turmoil Dean was shouldering once more, Cas wasn't going to leave him alone with his fear again. He carefully kneeled on the bed, pressing his palm against Dean's shoulder, a comfort rather than just an alarm. His fingertips moved in small circles against Dean's worn t-shirt as he pleaded in harsh, desperate whispers, "Wake up, Dean, I'm sorry, wake up, you have to fight this!" With each failed attempt, Cas sank lower onto the bed, until he lay on his side, his hand never leaving Dean's shoulder. The fallen angel inched closer until he was pressed against Dean's still-trembling body, shifting to wrap his arms around Dean, stilling him.

Dean, somewhere between the throes of awakening and the clutches of his night terrors, suddenly jerked upright, grasping Castiel's forearm. It sharply reminded Cas of when Dean clung to the angel as a soul; since then, Cas had never seen Dean look so vulnerable, so dependent. All too often, Dean let himself hide behind the role of a protector even when it didn't suit him, like when he was close to breaking down and he bottled his grief and frustration instead of venting: a time bomb who never truly left the Pit, who barely kept his head above his title of Righteousness.

Cas only wished he still had his wings; he'd risk the danger of fully manifesting them to wrap Dean in his Grace, keep him warm and safe, make the light bright enough to dispel the shadows. He settled for pulling Dean into a full embrace, rocking him back and forth in his arms while Dean mumbled sleepily, "No, no - didn't want to, that's not me, not me! I'm...I can't...I'm sorry..."

Dean let out a long, mournful whine that was muffled into Castiel's shoulder. Cas could feel Dean's lips moving, forming words that he couldn't hear. Cas scratched his fingers through the hunter's hair - which Dean sometimes did for Cas when the latter was anxious and the former was distracted - turning his head so his temple rested against Castiel's sternum. Cas figured the babbling would give him a clue to ending this once and for all, even without his power.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, voice ragged, the words sounding as if they're burning his throat. "...sorry...Cas..."

Castiel inhaled sharply, shocked by the apology. Dean's time in Hell never came up between them, much less what Dean did to Cas on the Rack. Cas had figured that those memories had been lost, and forgave Dean on account of the veil of sadistic tendency that Hell had woven for him.

In that moment, Dean jolted into awareness, pulling in a deep breath and faltering backwards. For a moment, Cas was deathly afraid that Dean would push him away, scold Cas for offering the comfort he didn't think he deserved. Instead, he held on tighter, taking over the embrace and crushing Cas to his chest.

"Fuck, Cas," he breathed, his breath hitching like he was still holding back tears. "I remember."

Cas settled into Dean's hold, unable to meet his eyes. "What, Dean?"

"What I did to you." Dean's grip turned painfully tight before he released Cas completely, collapsing back to the bed. He hid his face as he tried to control his breathing. "I was a monster," he mumbled. "Shit, I _am_ a monster...The Hell did you see in me, Cas? How could you still wanna save - " The air in Dean's lungs skittered out between tightly clenched teeth.

Cas watched in horror as Dean tried to get himself back under control - the control that Cas had seldom seen him loosen his grip on. 

"It is true," Castiel began, after long minutes and stuttering silences broken only by Dean's choked breaths. "You rejected redemption, and you shed my blood." Cas reclined on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, appearing lost in a reverie. "My brothers were all convinced that you'd been lost, that you couldn't be saved. I never believed that. Even after they'd fallen at my side, and I first laid eyes on you and saw what you'd become, I didn't believe it. I could still see your light, Dean. It never went out."

Cas turned onto his side, finally gathering the confidence to look upon Dean's face. The hunter's eyes were glassy and unseeing, his mouth wound too tight.

"You've never been a monster, Dean. I've seen you at your most basic elements. I wish there was a way for you to understand that feeling, when I held you in my arms, before your body was repaired. You were the most gentle soul I'd ever seen. The energy you held, the light you radiated...."

Throughout Castiel's speech, Dean slowly inched toward him, until he was as close as he could get to Cas without touching him. For the first time in a long time, Dean was speechless. Washing himself clean of the horrors of this subject was long overdue for the both of them.

"Thank you," Dean said in a chaste rush of air that Cas had to strain to hear. He moved himself one final inch forward until his forehead pushed against Cas' chest.

Cas' eyebrows furrowed. "For...what, Dean?"

He felt Dean press a nervous smile into his shirt. "Forgiving me. I wouldn't."

Castiel held in a sigh, instead grinning up at the ceiling as he pulled the blanket over both of them "I forgave you years ago, Dean. You have to forgive yourself."

Dean pressed a little closer and promptly fell asleep. Cas welcomed his warm, contented weight, even though their conversation had been clipped and there was a chance Dean wouldn't even remember it in the morning. He could awake fully only to be appalled by how vulnerable he'd made himself, and this night might only serve as another mistake in Dean's mind, another choice he'd condemn himself for.

Cas couldn't let that happen. When he turned his head just so, he could see the lazy smile splayed across Dean's features. There were no shadows, no Hell left in Dean's head to swallow him whole, make him doubt himself. The power to erase the remnants had been within Dean the whole time; now they could both rest. There were no sacrificial burdens, no sympathetic facades. 

There was a fall, a shift, then forgiveness.


End file.
